Page 31 of Ravaged
I’d like to claim that I’ve broken that habit.
Yeah, I’d like to claim that ...
“If I recall, no one asked you to come, Reggie,” Mom snaps at Dad. “But with so many of your church members here, you couldn’t pass up the chance of being here. Don’t act like you’re here for us.”
Us?We don’t want to be here either. But our choices were either attend this wedding and reception or face Monica Nelson’s cold and eternal wrath for the next month of Sundays. The woman can hold a grudge like nobody’s business.
“Please. If you didn’t want me here, you wouldn’t have mentioned it in front of me. Besides, you couldn’t have your family believing you were divorced. We have pretenses to keep.” He scoffs.
“Can we ... not?” Zora asks, a weariness in her voice. Cyrus slides his arm around her waist, tucking her into his side. “Especially with an audience?”
She’s not referring to Cyrus; I don’t need to be inside her head to know that. He’s well acquainted with our parents and the dysfunction that is their marriage and aware of the home we grew up in. Zora’s talking about the other guests. Being a spectacle at today’s wedding wasn’t on my bingo card today. But with our parents ...
Giving my father one last glare, Mom jerks her chin up. “Fine. Giving my aunt gossip isn’t something I’m looking forward to anyway. Speaking of”—she turns back to us—“I’ve told your aunt and cousins that the three of you own a marketing business together. Please don’t give any more details than that. God knows I wouldn’t begin to know how to explain what you really do.” Her voice drops to a whisper, and she glances around, as if checking to see if anyone had crowded close to eavesdrop on our conversation.
Because heaven forbid anyone discover her children owned and operated a legitimate, successful business that helped people in toxic relationships not end up likethem.
“Too bad,” Levi drawls. “I’d planned on handing the bride our card if she asked. Especially given how the groom keeps eying the maid of honor’s breasts. They’re clearly having sex.”
“Levi! Quiet!” my mother whisper-yells.
He shrugs. “The marriage is doomed. We would be doing her a favor.”
Tact. The tact is strong with that one.
But he’s not wrong.
“I have to agree with your mother,” Dad adds, resting his gaze on each of us but resting extralong on Levi. My brother returns it without flinching. That relationship ...whew. “Let’s keep your sordid little company outside of here.”
Anger flashes inside of me, hard and bright. Almost as if he senses that burst of hot emotion, Dad’s attention shifts from Levi to me, and that quick, the rage curls up like a match that’s burned itself out.
It’s not extinguished; no, from one instant to the next—and without my permission—I’m reverting to that little girl who hated the fighting, the acrid, scalding taste of fury in the air, the noise. I tuck myself into my head, wrapping myself in facts, in numbers. They’re not tumultuous. They don’t fluctuate and pitch with chaotic emotions and tempers.
x = –b ± √b² – 4ac/2a. The quadratic formula. Used to determine the x-intercepts of a quadratic or parabolic equation.
d = √ (x1– x2)² + (y1– y2)². The distance formula. Calculates the distance between two points on a coordinate plane.
Slope = y2– y1/ x2– x1. Slope formula. It determines the angle of a line that connects two points on a plane.
The equations and formulas roll through my mind, greeting me, comforting me like old friends. They go on and on until the tension in my shoulders eases, and I distance myself from my parents, from the weight of their emotional turmoil.
“Excuse me. I need a drink,” I say, edging away from our dysfunctional little circle.
“Not yet.” Mom steps forward and loops her arm through mine, locking me into her side before I can move toward the open bar. “Your aunt and uncle are dying to meet you. The wine can wait a couple of minutes.”
I’m not so sure about that.
I throw Levi and Zora a glance over my shoulder, and my sister winces. Levi and Dad remain engaged in their silent visual war.
Again. That relationship.Whew.Daddy issues, for real.
Forcing my lips into a smile that my mom is way too smart a woman to believe is real, I follow her across the room. Not that I have a choice since she still has me hooked like a fish.
I’m the storyteller of Ravaged Lands, always the one in control. There’s ... safety in that. In knowing the story, the correct decisions, and the potential consequences ahead of time. For instance, I knowwhen Sarafina is faced with those out to use her for her demon side—just a drop of her blood imbues one warrior with the strength of ten men—then vilify her for it, she doesn’t cower, doesn’t break. She fights, dares them to try and take anything from her that she hasn’t consented to, whether it be blood, her body, or her autonomy.
As the storyteller, I can momentarily live through that strength, craft it, and steal some of hers for my own.
But now, as I allow Mom to drag me over to a group of people and introduce them as various aunts, uncles, and cousins, I don’t have any to hoard. Instead, I paste a smile on my face and greet them, nodding and responding when appropriate. All the while wondering—again—why I’m here.
